


from its brumal sleep

by thisgirlsays22



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, post CotW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26193067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisgirlsays22/pseuds/thisgirlsays22
Summary: All the things Ray told himself he didn’t want when they were back in Chicago freeze when they’re exposed to the cold and shatter into icy shards. He hasn’t been running on instinct, not really, not for a long time.
Relationships: Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski
Comments: 36
Kudos: 103





	from its brumal sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Conundrum for the beta!

The air out here in the wilderness reminds Ray of Fraser in full uniform: crisp and clean. When they’re on the move, steel-cold wind whipping at his face, he doesn’t notice it so much. But at camp, when the air is still and Ray himself is momentarily still, he breathes it in long and deep. Nothing like the dirty city air he’s been inhaling since birth. It takes him a couple of weeks to realize it, but now that the lid’s off the pot, he can’t unsmell the difference. 

He and Fraser eat dinner quietly, interrupted only by the occasional whine from one of the dogs and the scrape of their silverware against the metal bowls as they eat their stew. 

“Fraser, the air it’s—there’s something—” Ray starts, breaking the silence, and then isn’t sure how to finish the thought without sounding like a grade-A dumbass. 

He looks back down at his empty bowl, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Fraser shifting, left knee pointing towards Ray as he settles into a new position. 

“It took me a long time to get used to the air in Chicago,” Fraser offers, and Ray nods, grateful Fraser’s picked up the thread. 

It’s not the only thing that Ray’s noticed. “And Dief,” he adds. “He’s different too. I dunno, thicker or something. Furrier.” Ray frowns and looks over at where Dief’s rolling in the snow, pretending he doesn’t care that Fraser won’t let him lick the remnants from their plates since it would make the other dogs jealous. 

“Ah, yes. Diefenbaker grew accustomed to life as a city dog, and his body adjusted accordingly.” Fraser shakes his head. “Early on in our life in Chicago, there were some rather trying periods of time where my uniform had to be cleaned of fur repeatedly. I’m sure his penchant for junk food did no favors for the quality of his coat, either.” 

Before they’d set off on the adventure, Fraser had pumped all of them full of extra calories and water. He’d explained it would help Dief’s new coat grow in. “Oh yeah?” Ray had said. “What about us then? When do I get my new coat?” and Fraser had reached over to touch the scruff on Ray’s jaw and said, “It would appear you’re already working on that, Ray.” And for a second Ray had thought—Ray had wanted— 

“No, I remember you saying.” Ray makes a circular, searching gesture in the air. “It’s just that I didn’t even notice him changing. It’s like BOOM suddenly I look over and realize he ain’t the same wolf I knew back in Chicago.” 

Fraser studies him carefully, dark eyes flickering around Ray’s face like he’s trying to find something there. “I understand it might be somewhat of an adjustment,” he says slowly, “but he _is_ the same wolf you knew back in Chicago. It’s merely his coat that’s of a thicker nature. A coat does not the man—or wolf, rather—make.”

“Why does it take you about three hundred words to say, ‘He’s the same on the inside, Ray’?” 

“He’s the same on the inside, Ray.” 

“Thank you.” Ray stands and gathers snow for Fraser’s tea and Ray’s hot cocoa. He licks his cold-chapped lips and says, “Is he, though? I mean, you stop letting a guy lick your bowl clean the way he’s grown accustomed to, that can change him.” 

Fraser considers Dief, who has now curled up in the snow, face tucked into his bushy tail. “Fundamentally, I believe he’s the same—on the inside, as you say. But out here, he’s free to be himself. To go back to his instincts, if you will. You of all people should appreciate a return to instincts.” 

There’s something in Fraser’s tone that sharpens Ray’s senses. He gets the snow melting on the stove and doesn’t look at Fraser when he mutters, “We got him all harnessed up now. How’s that instinct?” Instead, Ray looks over to where Dief is attached to the same line as the other dogs, still curled in on himself. Callie, Ray’s dog—that’s how he thinks of her even though Fraser keeps pointing out that it’s the wrong mindset to have—is vying for Dief’s attention, nudging at him playfully, egging him on to wrestle with her. 

“I suppose the theory isn’t without its flaws,” Fraser concedes. He’s standing now too, taking the lid off the big pot where the dry dog food’s been soaking and evenly portioning it out for feeding time. For a second it seems like Fraser’s done talking, but then after the sound of dog porridge slopping into the bowls stops, he says, “Nevertheless, the point remains: he’s still Diefenbaker.” 

“Maybe, but it’s not the same,” Ray argues. There’s something he wants Fraser to understand, and there’s this frustration bubbling up inside of him like all the other times he just wants Fraser to _understand_ and _agree_ instead of debating. 

Dief still affectionately mauls Ray’s ears and acts entitled to more nights in their tent than the other dogs, even Callie, but he and Fraser don’t get into their usual arguments. There aren’t any jelly donuts for Dief to whine for. He doesn’t wander the tundra the way he wandered the city, having adventures and making friends with hot-dog vendors and bakers on his lonesome. Ray doesn’t know which Dief was more real, but he knows that something feels different when he looks over at Dief, something more than just the thicker coat. 

Ray can’t figure out a way to say, _how come you and the wolf quit arguing_? without sounding like he’s spilled a few marbles out on the ice. 

“If you somehow managed to procure one of Mabel’s freshly baked croissants, he’d hardly refuse.”

“That’s not the point, Fraser!” 

Outside their campsite, just beyond the dogs, the dark outlines of the trees reach towards the remains of golden light still clinging to the sky. As much as Ray doesn’t mind the extra daylight they’re earning day by day, the threat of warmer weather and melting snow—the end of the adventure—hangs heavy in the air. Ray finds himself wanting to hold onto the brief windows of darkness before bed, where he and Fraser sip their hot drinks and stare up at the stars together. 

Dief isn’t the only one who’s different here. Ray studies Fraser’s profile as he gives each dog their portion of food. Fraser’s darkly stubbled jaw is tight, but it softens a little when Callie nuzzles at his hand and yips happily— _my dog_ Ray thinks proudly and defiantly. 

Cold bites at the exposed pieces of Ray’s face, and he wishes the water would heat up faster. He jiggles in place a little, moving his body around, his hands, his toes. In the endless cold, his twitchy movements come in handy. He puts some tea leaves in Fraser’s cup and some chocolate in his own and breathes in the warm, sweet smells.

The dogs scarf down their food. Fraser’s standing nearby, waiting to take their bowls when they’re finished so they don’t start playing with them and chewing holes through them. He’s studying, Ray, though. Quiet even though it looks like he wants to say something. Ray braces himself for an Inuit story about the nature of change and being, and actually he could get on board with one of those stories right now, but it doesn’t come. 

“It’s just—I don’t like it,” Ray tries again, kicking at a small pile of snow near the stove. 

Tightness returns to Fraser’s jaw. “Ray, if things were so much different, so much better, in Chicago, you’ll be back there soon enough to enjoy them.” There’s an exasperated edge to his words, and Ray doesn’t blame him. He’s feeling pretty exasperated with himself too. 

The water starts to boil, steam rising in the air, so he quickly pours it into both of their cups and shoves Fraser’s into his hands, returning Fraser’s glare as he does. They sit down next to each other, their chairs still close enough that their shoulders and legs are touching. Close enough that he’s tempted to shake Fraser. 

“I ain’t saying they’re better, just different! Jesus, Fraser, I’m just trying to. I don’t know, have a thought here.” It bugs him is all. The same way it used to bug him when Stella would act like a totally different person at one of her fancy work dinners or when Ray would drop by her office to meet her for lunch. 

“Ah.” It’s one of those hard-to-read ahs, but at least he sounds less exasperated now. 

Ray takes a sip of his cocoa. It’s on the watery side, but better than nothing. He’s surprised Fraser even packed it for him. “You’re different here too,” he says quietly. 

“In what way?” 

He thinks about this for a minute. “We got Dief on a harness here? Maybe we had one on you in Chicago.” Then after a moment waves a hand and adds, “You know, not literally.” 

“Yes, Ray, symbolically. I understand.” A thickly gloved thumb brushes over Fraser’s eyebrow. He’s sitting with his back ramrod straight. It sucks, it really sucks that Ray’s not making this any easier for Fraser to understand, and he can tell from the lines forming between Fraser’s brows that he’s _trying_. As irritated as Fraser might be with Ray right now, he’s still trying to get it. 

“You’re in your natural habitat here.” _And you’re going to stay here for fucking good, aren’t you_? 

“Have you considered, Ray, that perhaps you’re different here too?” 

Ray feels the sweet heat warming his throat and chest as he takes a long, deep sip of his cocoa. “Yeah,” he says, running his thumb along the rim of the metal cup. “Yeah, that’s crossed my mind too.” 

All the things he told himself he didn’t want when they were back in Chicago freeze when they’re exposed to the cold and shatter into icy shards. He hasn’t been running on instinct, not really, not for a long time. 

Fraser rests his hand on Ray’s back, and Ray doesn’t lean into the touch, but he doesn’t move away either. 

Back in Chicago, there had been one time Ray almost cracked. 

After Beth Botrelle didn’t die, Ray was having a lot of trouble sleeping. He’d be on the edge of falling asleep and then a little voice in his head would say, _close call, too close a call. You coulda killed her_ , and his eyes would snap right open. 

Drinking helped quiet his brain a little. So night after night he found himself alone in the back corner of a dive bar he liked on the South Side. Far enough from the precinct that he wouldn't run into nobody, nohow. 

On the night in question, the place was dead aside from a couple of miserable looking guys sat up at the bar and another throwing misaligned darts at the board on the opposite end of the room. The twinkling lights and the bartender’s Hawaiian shirt made the whole thing seem like a forced smile. 

The whiskey burned down slow and hot. Ray wanted to soak it in his veins and brain tonight. Slowly simmer then boil himself until something in his head went black and silent. 

He was getting ready to take another long swig when he saw a wolf walk through the door like the set-up to a bad joke. Fraser wasn’t far behind, dressed in his civilian attire—blue flannel shirt, jeans, and the worn brown leather jacket that Ray was kind of fond of. Seeing Fraser somehow simultaneously made his gut clench in irritation and heart soar with pleasure. After what appeared to be some negotiation with the bartender, Fraser glanced over at Dief,—who’d already found Ray and started pawing at his legs—pulled off his Stetson and shelled out some of the dough he kept tucked in there. Ray was glad he’d forced Fraser to start keeping some American bucks in there. 

“Are you Trapper Joeing me?” he asked, eyes narrowed, when Fraser cautiously approached his table, hat still in hand. An awful thought dawned on him a moment later. “Were you _licking_ my stuff?” 

“I don’t follow.” Fraser scratched his eyebrow. 

“How do you always know where to find me?” Ray demanded, swiveling to his right so he could crowd Fraser a little, jab a finger into his chest. Fraser always seemed to know if Ray was hitting the bags or had gone crawling back home or was moping at a shitty diner over a bad mug of coffee. No matter where Ray seemed to go, Fraser seemed to have no trouble following. 

Fraser looked at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “Because you let me, Ray.” 

It only took a split second for the words to land like a blow to the face. Ray sank back in his seat. He had let him. 

There wasn’t really anything left of his lives—the undercover one and even most of the real one, if you could even call it that anymore—that he hadn’t shared with Fraser. Whenever he went, whatever he did, Fraser could probably figure out pretty easily where he’d be, no licking necessary. 

Fraser hadn’t looked away from him not once, not even as Ray, wild-eyed, looked around the bar from his back corner, trying to find something else to rest his eyes on. But they kept coming back to Fraser. 

That was the closest he’d ever come to letting all the things he felt bubble over to the surface. That moment, that gut-punching moment where Fraser had looked at him with naked longing and Ray’s heart had thrashed in his chest like a wild animal. 

It had taken Ray a long, long time to realize that Fraser wanted him. And somehow instead of making everything simpler, it only freaked Ray out, made him dig his heels in on who he was and what he wanted in life—Stella Stella Stella until he exhausted himself and thought _just a nice woman to settle down with, kids, humping the job until I can retire early_. It was one thing to exchange hand jobs with a guy or maybe even let him fuck you, but it was another thing if you started thinking about maybe wanting to build a life together. 

Ray wasn’t damaged or stupid enough to believe that he could exchange a hand job with Fraser and call it a day. Fraser was already pretty much his entire world, so this was the one thing. The one thing that kept the whole thing from being entirely queer instead of borderline-entirely queer.

When Ray got the idea in his head for this adventure, when he felt like throwing up at the thought of saying goodbye to Fraser, he thought _okay. Okay, Ray. You’ll figure some shit out on this adventure. You’ll either know yes or you’ll either know no._

But he still needs more time to figure out who the fuck he is. More time to stop wanting to punch a block of ice when he sees Fraser's half-masked, beautiful, _I'm-home-sweet-home_ face when they're racing across the snow. 

“You really think I’m different out here?” Ray asks from his side of the tent, which is pretty much the same side of the tent as Fraser’s since the thing barely fits both of them. Fraser’s busy scribbling the day’s wind speed and temperatures in his journal (Ray tragically lost his journaling privileges when he used his turn to write racy scenes like outta Frannie’s romance novels that Ray had sometimes flipped through when she left them out on her desk.) 

It’s been bugging him. Niggling at him. Because he still thinks Fraser and Dief are different, but Ray? You could take the guy outta Chicago but not Chicago outta the guy. He’d thought it was the same for Fraser and Canada, but apparently he’d been wrong about that. 

“Yes and no.” 

“Yes and no,” Ray repeats before he can think better of it, “what’s that mean?” 

“That the answer to your question is both yes and no.” 

“Damn it, Fraser, take your one-man show out on the icy road. Maybe those foxes we passed by yesterday will dig your new act. Why’s the answer yes and no?” 

“Well, right now I would say no, you seem quite the same. But sometimes you look—there’s this way you seem that’s just different.” Fraser’s gone all weirdly flustered and shy, and Ray hadn’t been expecting that. He thinks maybe he isn’t ready for whatever the hell the answer is, so he immediately clams up. 

Fraser swallows, and he puts the journal down. Ray stares hard at the small lantern between them, tempted to just switch it off and say goodnight real fast. 

“There’s an old Inuit myth about the ijiraq—” Fraser ignores Ray’s muttered, “Of course there is.” “—The term you’d be more familiar with is shapeshifter. The ijiraq is particularly tricky because it can take any form it likes. Their appearance, usually in the form of an animal, is often enough to get them close to their prey with ease. However, what makes it rather remarkable is that no matter what shape it takes, its eyes are always red. It’s the one thing they can’t disguise. They can never truly become something other than what they are.” 

Fraser is looking at him, and it hits Ray that Fraser’s trying to piss him off, trying to goad him, get a reaction. This isn’t one of those times where Fraser was giving you a long, confusing story where you had to figure out the lesson to avoid giving you a straight answer. Fraser’s opening the door for Ray to say, “Fraser, my friend, what the fuck are you trying to say?” He’s luring Ray into some sort of question trap here. 

It definitely succeeds in making Ray want to punch him. Being deliberately provoked is a low blow. 

Ray hunkers down into his sleeping bag and scowls. “Great story, Fraser. Real informative.” 

Fraser matches his tone. “Thank you, Ray. I’m glad you found it so informative.” 

“Full of information.” 

“Indeed.” 

Maybe Fraser’s story got it right, the eyes don’t lie. Fraser’s don’t, anyway. There’s no mask, nothing when he looks at Ray. It’s just like back in Chicago, and Ray flinches. “I’m gonna go to sleep.” 

Fraser’s face doesn’t change. “Good night, Ray.” 

Ray rolls to his side so his back is to Fraser. The stove has done an OKish job at warming the tent up some, and between all the layers and two grown men mostly shoved together, Ray’s surprised when he shivers. 

Ray is here. They both probably know pretty fucking loud and clear why he’s here, but it doesn’t make it _easy_. He doesn’t see Fraser falling over himself to make it easy, either. He doesn’t see Fraser just making the decision for both of them. If Ray’s gonna go back after this—if he has to go back to his old life—he can’t do it if he walks through the door that Fraser’s cracked open for him. 

Some experimentation in college wasn’t the same as what’s through this particular door at this particular juncture. Ray’s 37 years old and whatever he does now with Fraser won’t be, can’t be, an experiment. But he isn’t sure where it can go. How would it look and play out? What the fuck happens next? If he asks Fraser to come back to Chicago, will he come? Could they even have a life there together? 

Ray isn’t sure that’s who he wants to be or a life he’s brave enough to lead. And if he starts talking to Fraser, well, Fraser has this way of talking Ray into things that Ray isn’t sure about all the time. Maybe he’s not ready to be convinced yet. Maybe he’s not ready for Fraser to have him jump off this particular building or plane. 

Fraser hadn’t wanted Callie to be part of the team at first. 

They’d spent about a week at Frobisher’s detachment in Fort McPherson, gathering supplies, charting a course for the limited time they had before the season was over, and generally trying to make sure that Ray was prepared enough to keep himself alive out on the snow and ice. They’d also spent time selecting their team of dogs. 

Ray clicked with Callie more than any of the other dogs. Don’t get him wrong, they were all great in their own way—except Pogo who can be a real drip—but Callie kept Ray laughing right from the start, still does. Last night when he’d been wearing his glasses to go over some of the routes with Fraser, she’d run up and knocked them straight off his face and then dashed away, stopped to see if Ray was following, and dashed away again. She knew how to have a good time, to keep a guy guessing. 

“She’s not confident enough to take orders,” Fraser had explained while the dogs chowed down on their dinner. “We can’t have her goofing off during the journey and distracting the rest of the team.” 

Ray had immediately been defensive and outraged on behalf of this dog whom he already loved unconditionally. He’d flung his arm out and pointed at Callie who was wolfing down her food faster than any of the other dogs, even Dief who usually gave anyone a run for their money. “She’ll be fine! On that practice run we did on Thursday she was great, just great. Just because yesterday she was having a little bit of fun doesn’t mean nothing. She knew it wasn’t the real deal.” 

Fraser was unmoved. “Ray, I really think—” 

Now Ray pointed at himself. “Instinct, Fraser. Instinct. I know you’re the expert out here, but I’m asking you to trust me on this one thing. So unless you really _really_ think this is a matter of life or death, trust me.” 

Ray could see in Fraser’s eyes, the way his brow knit together, that he was struggling not to argue on this point. Maybe he was trying to come up with some stories from his childhood about how one bad caribou could spoil the bunch, or maybe he just understood that Ray was dead serious about this point. That even though Fraser was the lead dog on this adventure, Ray could still make a few calls here and there too. 

“I trust her,” Ray said, quieter but more forceful. He put his hand on Fraser’s chest, protected by the thick coat and layers upon layers of clothes underneath. “Same way I trusted you from the start.” 

Fraser’s eyes flashed up to his, looking surprised and pleased. He nodded finally. 

And Ray’s starting to feel more and more confident about his decision every day. Because every day, Callie’s getting more and more confident. Dief even lets her ride lead with him so he can show her the ropes. He’s real patient with her too—correcting her if she starts going the wrong way, doesn’t bark or snap at her. 

She’s learning to take orders well, and Ray thinks that he has something to do with that. That the extra attention he’s not supposed to give her is making her realize she’s something special. 

Fraser finally tells him it was a good call, bringing Callie, and Ray can’t help the swell of pride in his chest or the grin that spreads across his whole face. 

The dogs are the first to realize that something’s wrong. 

Dief’s distressed enough that he doesn’t seem all that excited about his afternoon snack and instead whines and tosses his head at Ray and Fraser insistently. The rest of the dogs are all staring off intently in the same direction. It makes the hair rise at the back of Ray’s neck. He goes to check on Callie, and he swears she gives him a look like, _what the hell are we going to do_? 

Doesn’t take long at all for Fraser to catch on to whatever’s happening. Dief whines at them again, and Fraser says, “Right you are, Dief,” as he squints at the flat, grey horizon. Even Ray notices that the wind’s picking up, the exposed parts of his face almost burning as it’s brutalized by the wind. “A blizzard’s heading our way.” 

Ray looks out at all the nothing upon nothing as far as the eye can see. “How can you tell?” 

“It’s too cloudy for it to have been obvious without the help of the dogs.” Dief barks. “Yes, thank you kindly, Diefenbaker. Otherwise, grey would indicate a blizzard. If there’s blue on the horizon, it’s likely just strong winds.” 

Ray tries to assess how freaked out on a scale of just-another-day-with-Fraser to Fraser-pissed-off-someone-in-the-mob he needs to be. His scale hasn’t yet been recalibrated to include disasters that can occur while dog-sledding in the arctic. Knowing Fraser it’s pretty amazing they haven’t stumbled onto mob activity out here, to be honest. 

“Right, okay,” Ray says, closing his eyes briefly. “So, uh, how many miles are we from the next village?” 

“Too many.” Fraser frowns. “Though I’ve marked a few other places on our map where we could take shelter if needed. If memory serves, we should find an abandoned radar station not too far from here. There we’d have a few buildings to protect our camp from the wind while we wait out the storm.” 

“Okay, so how many miles are we from _that_?” Ray realizes that they’ve been slowly raising their voices to be heard over the rising wind. Like frogs in a boiling pot of water. And Fraser hasn’t taken the time to give Ray an entire history lesson about this abandoned radar station. Shit. This would probably be a nine or ten on the new scale. 

“I’d say roughly five kilometers. Just over three miles,” he adds for Ray’s benefit. 

“Right right.” Ray rubs his gloved hands together and puts his best partially-obscured game face on. “Okay, if we stay and set up shop here we could maybe make do and wait out the storm?” 

Fraser nods. “Or we get back on the sled right away and try to make it the last three miles to better shelter. We don’t know how long the storm would last out here.” 

“And if the storm hits before we make it?” 

“Setting up a tent in the midst of a storm this tremendous is rather…ill-advised.” 

“So we’d be screwed.” 

“No, no, not necessarily. I’m sure we could—” 

“Fraser.” 

“Quite possibly, yes.” 

They have a silent conversation with their eyes. Fraser doesn’t look afraid he looks—exhilarated. There’s this determined, brave spark there that revs Ray’s engine; a mix of fear and excitement that sends Ray’s pulse into overdrive. He jerks a thumb over at the sled. “Let’s vamoose then. No time to waste.”

And Fraser, unhinged maniac that he is, grins wildly and says, “Right you are, Ray,” before they both leap into action.

Fraser goes to Dief at the front of the gang-line after the dogs are all set up again, and has a serious-looking conversation with him that involves a lot of gesturing. Then Fraser does something that shocks Ray: he brings Callie up next to Dief to ride lead with him. That same pride swells in Ray’s chest again when Fraser turns and gives him a quick nod. 

Even though they’ve planned out the weight of the sled carefully, Fraser gets on the snowshoes and Ray gets on the runners of the sled. This way the dogs will have less to carry and more energy to expend flying across that snowy wasteland. Ray knows if he needs to he can run alongside the sled, but for now, he pedals to help give them some extra speed as they race across the ice. 

There are about five good minutes where he can see the dark, blurred outlines of buildings rising up in the distance. His hands are so cold they ache underneath the gloves, and his eyelashes are starting to freeze and clump—they’ll be a bitch to thaw at camp, but hey, he’ll take that problem. A good problem to have if it means they make it to relative shelter and can set up camp. 

It’s a nice five minutes, but there’s only so long you can outrun a storm. Soon Ray can barely see a thing around him besides the fuzzy figures of Fraser and the team. The dogs are still looking frantically in the direction of the storm coming at them from the East. 

Ray’s just gotta trust in their instincts. He doesn’t know how they do it, how they can just be so close to the wild and hear it calling and know exactly how to answer. He always thought that was how he rolled too, but he’s learning that maybe it was only half the truth. 

While the dogs are watching the storm, he sees Fraser’s watching him. 

Another ten minutes go by, and Ray swears when he last had those buildings in sight they weren’t all that far away. Maybe they should have been there by now and they’ve overshot it. They’re lost in a swirling white-wind, and maybe it was expecting way too much for Dief and Callie to be able to guide them there based on a brief pep talk from Fraser. 

But he trusts them—Dief and Callie and the rest of the team too. Even Pogo. And Fraser, he trusts Fraser too. 

The next time he sees Fraser looking at him, he reaches up quickly to brush his thumb against his nose, and for a second he thinks maybe Fraser can’t make out the gesture, but then he signs it back to him, and Ray just believes. He believes so hard he swears it makes the four concrete fortresses appear out of the fucking nowhere of the storm. 

Dief and Callie guide them confidently to a space between two of the structures where they’re shielded from the worst of the wind. Together, Ray and Fraser get the supplies covered under their big, blue tarp and tilt the sleds up to give the dogs extra protection from the wind. The tent comes up and they squish inside with the stove because storm or no storm, everyone still needs to eat. 

Once the adrenaline fades, Ray is left with a bone-deep exhaustion. Even chasing criminals or hitting the bags until he could barely move his arms never left him feeling this wrung out. The cold and the exertion and the way it feels to be so close to Fraser all the time without knowing what the fuck he wants to do about it. It drains Ray in a way he never imagined possible. 

Later that night he asks in the darkness, “How did Dief and Callie even get us here?” 

“We’ve been here before,” Fraser explains. “We’ve run this route in the past. We’re only a couple week’s travel from Inuvik, so he’s relatively familiar with the terrain. And Callie would have likely spent some time on these trails as well from what Frobisher told me when we were choosing the team.” 

“Jesus, we’re lucky.” 

“Well, it’s hardly luck, Ray.” 

“If you give me the proper preparation speech, I swear to God—” 

“It’s not a speech, it’s merely a—” 

“Fraser. It’s too cold, and I’m too tired for this.” 

“Right you are, Ray.” 

Ray feels like he’d been one of those storm-chasers, well, the opposite, but still. The thrill and sheer terror of trying to best Mother Nature herself. It’s kind of crazy that Fraser had looked part worried and part like he was having the time of his life. He’s usually more of a one-with-nature kind of guy, so to pit the two against each other seems all kinds of wrong. 

But then Ray realizes that trying to outrun a storm isn’t the same as fighting against nature. Surviving what nature throws at you makes you tap into your own nature—your survival skills and instinct. The dogs and Fraser weren’t trying to stop the storm, just trusting themselves to find a way to make it through.

And he sees Fraser obscured by the edge of the blizzard, navigating on his snowshoes, watching Ray. Somehow Fraser’s still the same unhinged guy Ray knew back in Chicago and also this wild stranger. 

Ray had spent a long long time binding himself to words like Husband and Detective and Straight. Those things took time to unravel, just ask Stella. And there had been questions that Stella had asked him that he’d spent a lot of time avoiding the answers to. It’d be easy to return home and bind himself to almost all those same words. Just this time he’d be Divorced and Detective and Straight.

He’s half-asleep when he feels Fraser shifting behind him and a hand comes to rest on his hip. He pretends he’s already asleep and breathes in deep and slow, doesn’t move. 

In the morning his eyes snap open when a half-formed thought forces its way into full clarity. Maybe even more snow’s coming and the winter season will be extra long this year for them. Maybe a storm means more time. 

“We _are_ lucky,” Fraser says like they’re in the middle of a conversation, and Ray has to mentally rewind the clock to last night to get where Fraser’s coming from. He’s not looking directly at Ray but at the stove. They’re stuck in the tent as the wind pelts at the sides and howls around them. 

“Okay,” Ray says cautiously. “Uh, yeah, it’s good to be out of the storm.” 

“No, that’s not what I—well, yes, it is good to be out of the storm—but what I’m trying to say is—” Fraser stops speaking and dumps dry dog food into the water, and he’s quiet for so long that Ray thinks he’s given up trying to say whatever it is. But then Fraser turns to him and there’s something in his eyes, desperation maybe, that makes Ray’s pulse start to race. “There was so much, back in Chicago, I never dared want,” Fraser says. “I never would have imagined this adventure—that you’d want to—that we’d be. Well, I’m very glad you’re here, Ray. I’d never considered an excursion like this with someone else.” 

“More than an excursion, Fraser.” Ray tries to laugh a little, but his chest feels too tight he can barely breathe. The tent feels too small and too large at once. Fraser’s barely two feet away, and Ray wants to maybe run away or pull him closer, hold on so tight and never let go. Fraser’s trying to do the noble thing, waiting for Ray to make up his mind and make a move, but he needs Fraser to ride lead with him on this one because Ray doesn’t know how to navigate this storm alone. 

If he finally walks through that door only to find there’s nowhere behind it for them to go, Ray doesn’t think he can handle it. 

Ray clears his throat. “Does this mean—does the storm mean we maybe got more time out here? You think we’ll actually make it up to the sea?”

“It’s hard to say. We really wouldn’t want to be out on the sea ice too far into June to be on the safe side, but it’s quite possible that at the very least we could make it to the shore and ride along the Beaufort Sea.” Fraser thinks for a second and then continues, “We don’t want too many storms to slow us down. It's more important that the temperature stays below freezing—” Ray pulls a face at that—“Regardless, I’d expect us to have another few weeks at least.”

A few weeks. That’s it. Ray needs air, more air. He needs dirty Chicago air to burn his lungs and bring him back down to earth. 

Fraser must see something in his face because he adds quickly, “But Ray, there are other ways to travel than by dogsled.” 

Ray lifts his head, says all hopeful, “Oh yeah? I thought this might be your preferred method.” 

That makes Fraser smile. “There are all manner of options that we could determine once we’re in Inuvik. Snowmobile, RV, even car perhaps.” 

“We go RV, my parents would bust a nut.” 

“I’m sure they’d have useful advice to impart.” 

“Yeah, useful. That’s a word for it. I’d prefer they outpart it on me, if it’s all the same.” 

“I don’t know that impart actually has an antonym,” Fraser says thoughtfully. “Or at least not in the matter you’re using it. Keep it to themselves—” 

“Keep it to _yourself_ ,” Ray says, one corner of his mouth sliding up into a half-smile. 

“Understood.” Fraser looks over his shoulder at Ray, fighting back a smile of his own. His eyes are bright, the lashes still kind of frozen and shiny; Ray might need to help him out with that later the way Fraser does for him some nights. 

Once the dog food is all good and wet, Fraser hauls it outside. The tent flaps blow back wildly and the violent wind rushes in at Ray’s face. Fraser shouts an apology as he gets the flap zipped up behind him. 

Ray stays as close to the stove as humanly possible as he starts thawing out their dinner rations. Fraser has everything all neatly structured into the perfect daily rations, so as tempted as Ray is to snag some of the cheese from Fraser’s portion, he resists because he doesn’t want to screw Fraser out of much-needed energy. A couple of times, though, Fraser’s given him some extra cheese or sausage from his dinner anyway. 

This time Ray moves some of the sausage from his portion over to Fraser’s. 

On the third night of waiting out the storm, Ray says from his sleeping bag, “I’m not sure I can see you in an RV.” 

Fraser’s lying on his back, and he turns his head to look at Ray. “Why not?” 

“I dunno. It’s like I said before. You’re different out here.” 

“Why do you keep saying that, Ray?“ Fraser doesn’t sound fully exasperated but like he’s headed in that direction. 

“I told you. The harness thing.” 

“Yes, but _why does it matter_?” 

“Because you’re not coming back are you?” Ray blurts out. The words are out there now, real as the ice crystals beating against the walls of the tent. 

Fraser brushes his thumb over his eyebrow. Then he shakes his head once. 

“If I asked you, would you?” Ray demands, looking at him hard, already suspecting he knows the answer. Fear thrums in his body.

Fraser sits up and meets Ray’s eyes dead-on, and there’s nothing guarded or blank in them. The frankness, the openness, splits Ray apart. “Yes.” 

Ray swallows hard, jaw ticking. “Then I won’t ask.” He can’t see Fraser with that harness on again, not after seeing him like this. 

Fraser nods once sharply and turns away from Ray, rolling over and rooting through one of their packs. He’s not even really looking for anything, he’s just faking something important to do so he can look away.

Fury flares irrationally inside of Ray. The storm has been chasing him this whole time, and he can’t outrun it anymore. He just has to let it rage around him, he has to keep racing forward through it. He has to survive it. 

Ray doesn’t move, but his hands curl into fists by his side. He says to Fraser’s back: “You ever think I want _you_ to ask _me_?” Ray didn’t know he was going to say that until the words were already out of his mouth, and he can’t take them back now. 

Fraser goes utterly still. “Ask you what, Ray?” 

“Do not play dumb with me, Fraser. Not now, okay? This is—this just isn’t the time for that shit, okay?” 

“I’m not playing dumb, and no I didn’t ever think you wanted that.” Fraser’s voice is quiet, but there’s this dangerous glint to it that simultaneously sets Ray’s teeth on edge and makes him hot. “So I need you to say it.” 

Yeah, fine, maybe fair’s fair even if he feels like he’s about to jump out of his own skin and he wishes Fraser would just throw him a fucking bone here. Ray blows out a long breath like at the start of a fight, when he first steps into the ring before he’s even warming up, moving light on his feet. 

He lifts his chin. “Ask me to stay.” 

There is a long, long silence, and as it builds Ray feels like a bomb inside of him is about to explode. He might take Fraser by the shoulders, turn him around so he can yell in his face. Might even punch him again. Ray’s ears are still ringing so it takes him a second to realize Fraser’s speaking, barely a whisper, “Stay with me. Stay with me, Ray. Please.”

It knocks everything out of Ray. All the fear and anger fizzles out like a lit match doused with water. 

Ray kneels down next to Fraser who is staring hard at the bags, looking stricken. His voice shakes when he says. “Look at me, Fraser.” 

Fraser does as he’s told. 

Ray looks at Fraser, and Fraser looks at Ray. 

There’s nowhere to hide anymore. Nothing pollutes the air here—breathing has never been easier. The whole world opens up between them. 

Ray runs a gloved thumb across Fraser’s bottom lip, and then Fraser is clutching him and kissing him senseless. His tongue slips in between Ray’s lips, and Ray sucks on it, taking Fraser in, tasting as much of him as he can. Ray’s body shakes—with relief and want and fear and joy. He clings onto Fraser for dear life. 

Fraser has beautiful hands. Skilled hands. They slip underneath Ray’s long-johns and map his body like every inch is worth careful study, like Fraser is going to have to navigate it from memory like the wilderness and every second counts. _Fucking yes, map me, do me, fuck me_. He wants those hands around his cock and Fraser’s fingers buried inside of him. 

But Fraser’s got other plans that involve them in their sleeping bags, rutting together like animals. Ray’s surprised, somehow, by how much he loves the weight of Fraser’s cock in his hand as he fists them both together, slick with spit and pre-cum. 

It’s been a long time since either of them has been touched like this and Ray’s covered both their bellies with come before Fraser’s even touched his ass. 

In the dark, he waits for shame to swallow him whole. 

He waits and waits until he falls asleep in Fraser’s arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against Ray’s back. 

The first few times are good, sure, in the way that almost any food tastes good after you’re damn near starvation. His hunger for Fraser building and building and building. Rubbing against each other in the tent, clothes half-on, generating their own heat isn’t bad by any stretch. It’s just that it gets really good, like really fucking good, when the storm finally passes and they get to the next town marked on Fraser’s map, one large enough to have a room—granted it’s more of a storage shed in someone’s yard that they stuck a bed in—for rent. 

Ray’s got his cock buried in Fraser who’s on his hands and knees beneath him on the small, narrow bed. Doesn’t matter how small the bed is. What matters is that there’s any bed at all and they’re both buck naked and Ray can move his hands over every inch of Fraser’s skin. The long, smooth muscles of Fraser’s back flex and ripple as Ray pumps into him. Next time he’s gonna take his time, he’s gonna lick every line of muscle and move real slow, but this time he’s wild and unleashed, off the fucking harness. Something’s come loose one rock at a time, and now there’s an avalanche crashing down inside of him. 

One hand grips Fraser’s hip so hard he knows it’ll bruise, his thumb digging hard into bone. His other hand squeezes and slides against Fraser’s cock with no real rhythm or finesse behind it. 

Fraser—Fraser is so hot under his hands. And how into it he is, just choking out moans beneath him _more, Ray, more yes yes yes. God yes, don’t stop_ , fucking himself back on Ray’s cock like he can’t get enough, makes that wild, unleashed thing inside of Ray lose whatever was left of its mind. He lets go of Fraser’s cock and grips the bedpost, shifts his angle so he can get in just a little deeper, go a little faster. 

Fraser reaches down to grab himself, still moving back against Ray. “Ray, Ray, oh right there, yes. Please—I can’t—” 

The best thing about the not-as-spectacular-but-satisfying tent sex had been that he’d figured out real fast that Fraser’s neck was one of his trigger spots. There’s still a hickey in the hollow where Fraser’s neck meets his collarbone from where Ray spent a solid five minutes kissing and tonguing and sucking it until Fraser was a panting mess, humping Ray’s leg frantically under their sleeping bags. 

He bends forward and bites the back of Fraser’s sweat-slicked neck as he comes, and he feels Fraser’s whole body shiver beneath him as he lets out a low, shuddering moan in the shape of Ray’s name. 

They’ve had a stretch of good weather this past week. Cold enough that the snow hasn’t turned to slush and light enough that they can travel for most of the day. Now, they’re enjoying a midday break in the sunshine along the frozen bank of the Mackenzie River. 

“I kept thinking I was crazy,” Fraser says, reaching out to cup Ray’s jaw. He looks at Ray in a way he hasn’t been looked at in years and years. Maybe never before, not quite like this. As much as Stella had loved Ray, she’d never been surprised by his feelings. Fraser, though. Fraser looks stunned even now. 

“You _are_ crazy.” 

“Yes, well. Crazy in this specific sense.” 

“Oh. Nah, you weren’t crazy.” 

Ray doesn’t know what else to say. It’s all curled and twisted in his chest, but he thinks Fraser gets that. They stare at each other for a while and that soft joy is almost too much to bear. He’s relieved when Fraser kisses him. 

A fresh blanket of snow covers the ground. Untouched, a new beginning. The dogs are running free off the line, jumping and barking and rolling in the snow. Callie and Dief chase each other in circles.

They’re only a day’s travel from Inuvik now, and Ray’s excited to see it now that the future is stretching out in front of him. Fraser’s promised him Chinese food their first night in town, and he can’t wait.

“I guess I _am_ kinda different out here, huh?” Ray says. He doesn’t know how to tell Fraser that the wilderness is part of him now no matter where he goes, that he’s excited and afraid and loves Fraser so much it hurts. Ray doesn’t know how to say these things yet, but he thinks it won’t be too long until he gets there. 

“You’re still you, Ray,” Fraser says quietly. He smiles then kisses Ray again, soft and sweet. “You just have a thicker coat.”

**Author's Note:**

> I shamelessly lifted the title from John Myers O'Hara's Atavism, part of which was used as the epigraph to Jack London's Call of the Wild. I have yet to finish the book, but I started reading thanks to Due South and was immediately inspired by the epigraph to write this story. 
> 
> "Old longings nomadic leap,  
> Chafing at custom's chain;  
> Again from its brumal sleep  
> Wakens the ferine strain."
> 
> Kudos and comments are always deeply appreciated!


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